don't hold your breath
by coffeeflavoredkisses
Summary: Sam is thirteen years old the first time he kisses his brother. [Prequel to breathe deep and suffocate]


**A/N: Hey! I'm really sorry if anyone tried to read this before and the text was all messed up- I have no idea what happened! And of course I didn't notice until hours after I posted it. The sequel is fixed as well, sorry for any inconvenience.**

Sam is thirteen years old the first time he kisses his brother.

It's not romantic, not soft and gentle. It's not frantic and desperate, and Dean doesn't look at him like he wants to get his hands all over him. It's not any of the things Sam has been imagining since he was ten years old and saw Dean kissing the girl from the apartment next door in the laundry room.

It's not even really a kiss.

It starts on the way to Sam's fifth middle school of the year, Dean in the driver's seat even though high school starts earlier and it means he'll miss his first class, Sam pressed up against the passenger side door and trying not to let his nerves show.

"You're gonna do fine." They're ten minutes into the twenty-minute ride to the center of town from the rundown house they're renting on the outskirts, and up until now it's been spent in silence. Sam was trying not to panic, and Dean was seemingly clinging to sleep for as long as he could. Now he's got one hand on the steering wheel and the other cradling a travel mug of coffee, one eye on the road and the other studying Sam.

"I know, Dean. It's not like this is the first time." Or the second time, or the third or even the tenth. By all rights, Sam should be a pro with nerves of steel at this point. But no, the words are directed at himself as much as they are Dean, even though the reminder only serves to make him bitter.

"I'm not saying it's not okay that you're nervous." Dean says abruptly. A quick glance to the right confirms that Dean is shifting uncomfortably, probably because the topic is too close to actual feelings. Sam rolls his eyes back to the window and tries to sigh petulantly, but his chest is too tight and he feels closer to sobbing than sighing.

"I just…" Sam stops himself, emotions that his calm, cool and collected brother could never understand rising far too close to the surface. He drops his eyes from his window to his lap, trying to ignore the thin film of tears he can feel building and focus on taking deep breaths that don't seem to fill his lungs all the way.

Suddenly he feels a hand close around his knee, resting directly in his line of vision where his knees are curled up toward his chest. He looks over at Dean, oddly touched. While physical contact isn't exactly uncommon between them, it's always a toss up during times like these between whether Dean will try to comfort him or make fun of him. It's nice to know his big brother is taking him seriously instead of telling him to stow the teenage angst and get over it.

Dean moves his hand back to the wheel, because of course he couldn't have just put his precious coffee down, no, naturally he thought it would be better to just drive with his knees. Sam rolls his eyes again, and Dean just throws him that stupid devil-may-care smile. Sam pretends it doesn't make his stomach flip. The grin fades almost as quickly as it comes though, and Dean focuses back on the road outside as he says, "You wanna tell me what's wrong?"

"Nope." Sam answers, back to sulkily studying his knees. His legs are twitching like he wants to run, his whole body tense in preparation, and his stomach is rolling for an entirely different reason now.

And really, he has every intention of keeping his mouth shut and panicking in silence, but then he makes the mistake of looking up. Up and over at his brother, who watches him with soft eyes and says gently, in a way that he only ever is when it's just the two of them, "Sammy."

And the floodgates burst open.

"It's just that I actually _liked_ the last school, we were there for long enough that I, stupidly, made friends that I actually care about leaving, and I'm worried that I won't like it here. Or worse that they won't like me. Not that I need them too, but I don't want this to end up like the first half of sixth grade when Dad _finally_ had a long hunt in one place but the kids all _hated _me and thought I was weird! Or worse, maybe I'll actually love it here and have to go through this again in a month or three months when we have to leave _again_, and then-"

"Sam!" The sharp call cuts through his frantic rant, his head snapping up to look at Dean in confusion. He hadn't even noticed that Dean had pulled over to the side of the empty country road, gaze fixed on Sam and face a picture of guilt for something that's not even close to being his fault. Dean's eyes are wide and sad and worried as he says, "Just… just take a deep breath, okay?"

"Really, Dean?" Sam tries to snap, but it comes out as more of a gasp. "That's your brilliant advice? _Deep breaths_?"

Dean shakes his head, finally putting down his coffee and scooting a little closer to Sam across the bench seat. "Not for that, no, but you're getting a little hysterical and I need you to calm down."

"I can't." Sam says, frustrated, trying to draw in air while his throat feels like it's closing up. The interior of the car that is normally more than big enough is getting smaller and smaller.

"You can't calm down?" Dean asks, worry becoming the dominant emotion on his face as Sam shakes his head.

"No, I can't- I can't fucking _breathe_." Sam uncurls his body hastily and throws open the car door, stumbling out onto the shoulder of the road. He doesn't look back to see Dean's expression morph fully into fear, but he can hear the alarm in his voice when his brother asks, "What do you mean you can't fucking breathe, you're breathing right now!"

"I'm not- I don't-" Sam's gasping for air now, sobbing a little when the attempts are fruitless, because he doesn't know what's going on, this has never happened to him and he doesn't want to die on the side of a deserted road in Nowhere, Nebraska.

He's frightened and panicked and so pumped up on adrenaline that, combined with the lack of air, he feels like he's going to pass out. The last time he felt even remotely like this was a year ago, when Dean came home from hunting a werewolf covered in a blood. After frantically confirming that the blood wasn't Dean's, Sam had punched him in the face and ran out the door. That same fight or flight instinct is filling him now, hands clenching into fists. He's standing by an empty road in a field that stretches for miles and all he can think is _trapped, can't breathe, get out get out-_

He runs. And it doesn't make him feel better, not really, because he's nauseous and light-headed and breathing hard without getting any oxygen and any second now he's going to lose his breakfast in the dirt at his feet, but at least he's not trapped and twitching and waiting for death.

He comes to a stop after who knows how long, just barely managing to avoid falling to his knees when his legs buckle. He doubles over, hands resting on his knees and choking on every breath in that comes out as a sob and he barely even realizes his mouth is moving, begging. "Please, can't- I can't- please, make it stop, _make it stop_-"

"Sammy." He whirls around, eyes wide and wild, tears streaming down his face that he hadn't even noticed until now. Dean is standing a few feet behind him in an obvious attempt to give him space, hand stretched out toward Sam. His own eyes are suspiciously wet, and his face is a façade of control that Sam can easily see through. "Please, Sammy, you're scaring me."

His brother is terrified and that, if nothing else, gives Sam an incentive to try to calm down.

"Okay. Okay, I- Dean." The last word, the only word Sam really needs, ends on a choked sob. He takes a stumbling step forward and barely registers Dean's relief before he falls into his brother's chest. Dean's arms come around him like a vice, catching and holding, and Sam waits for the trapped feeling to come but it never does.

He feels the adrenaline recede, opens his hands out of the tightly clenched fists he'd barely noticed forming and flexes his fingers, bringing his arms up to hook around Dean's chest, burying his face into his shoulder. His fingers smooth rhythmically over Dean's jacket, familiar leather scent and texture going a long way toward calming him. He tries to steady his breathing, but it doesn't work and all too soon he finds himself working up toward hyperventilation again. Dean notices. "Whoa, hey, just… deep breaths, Sammy, breathe with me."

He tries, he really does, tries to breathe in when Dean does and match his pattern, but the only thing that does is heighten the feeling that he's not getting enough air. He feels his frustration mounting when Dean uses a hand to tilt Sam's head up to face his and says, "Try like this."

And then Dean is breathing into his mouth. Sam breathes in on a gasp, startled, and it tastes like coffee and spearmint. His lips are a centimeter away from his brother's, not quite touching but almost. He clutches at Dean's shoulders to keep himself standing and suddenly feels lightheaded for an entirely different reason. But he breathes out a sigh into Dean's mouth and watches, up close, his brother breathe it in.

It continues like that, Dean breathing out and Sam breathing it in, then sighing it out to go back for more, for what could be years. Sam is unaware of anything that isn't Dean, one hand at his waist, the other rough and calloused and so so gentle on the side of his face. And then Dean shifts, just a little, maybe adjusting his weight or maybe going to pull back, it doesn't matter. All that matters is suddenly Dean's still open mouth is just barely brushing his own, catching and dragging slightly on Sam's softly parted lips.

Dean doesn't jump back in shock or pull away in panic, but he does move back immediately. Sam just barely registers the enticingly soft texture and a hint of cherry chapstick before Dean's face is inches away, green eyes drinking him in, somehow looking both slightly pained and fiercely relieved all at the same time. Sam can't even imagine what he looks like at the moment, but he'd put money on 'dazed' or 'awestruck' or 'desperately in love.'

"You okay?" Dean asks softly, voice hushed even though there's no one around for miles. Sam nods, steps out of the circle of Dean's arms and takes a deep, even breath.

The sky is light gray and bright, the sun peaking through the cloud cover in places to create easily visible sunbeams that disappear before they reach the ground. The grass is nearly to their knees, not quite green but golden, swaying gently in a cool breeze. He stretches his hands down to skim the top of the grass with his fingertips, smiling when it tickles his palms. They'd run farther into the field than he'd thought, the car sitting abandoned a ways off with both doors still flung open. It's shiny and glinting compared to the street it's on, the road that is flat and black and twisting out of sight. Sam knows with a certainty he can feel to his bones that it goes on forever.

He's tired. He's crashing hard from an adrenaline high, and he wants to go home. But all he can think is how beautiful it is here, this deserted field outside an insignificant town in the very definition of a fly over state. And when he looks over to see Dean watching him watch the land, his brother with his emerald green eyes and freckles the color of the golden grass and lips that taste like cherry chapstick, he thinks maybe he's already there.

"I'm okay." He finally answers, and Dean smiles fondly.

"All right, space cadet. Let's go home, yeah? Save our first day of school for tomorrow." Dean's reaches out a hand to give Sam's hair a playful ruffle, a familiar move that will make Sam bitch and moan and smile when he thinks Dean's not looking. Halfway through it changes, turns into Dean's hand smoothing down the wayward strands and hooking around Sam's neck to pull him in flush to Dean's side.

"Yeah, that sounds good." Sam agrees, relieved, letting Dean wrap his arm around Sam's shoulders like he needs helping walking back. He doesn't mind.

They walk to the car in silence. Sam tips his face up towards the sky and focuses on the breeze playing with his hair. Out of the corner of his eye he sees Dean stretch out his right arm to skim along the grass, his own eyes on the horizon. They don't speak until they're at the edge of the field, by the passenger side of the car where Dean should be letting Sam go. Instead he pulls him in tighter, squeezes him in a one-armed hug and turns his head, forehead pressed to Sam's temple as he breathes in his ear, "Never do that to me again."

Sam could ask what he means, but he doesn't have to. He just nods, brings his right arm up to squeeze the hand Dean's still got on his shoulder. Dean lets him go.

In the car on the way back, Dean finds a soft rock station on the radio. He sings along quietly, and Sam falls asleep against the window. Sam doesn't stir for the short drive or when they park in front of the house. He doesn't stir when Dean lifts him carefully out of the car and manages to get the door unlocked and opened without dropping him. He doesn't even stir when Dean strips off his shoes and jeans and tucks him into bed. Not until, that is, Dean tries to move away.

Dean doesn't even think he wakes up, not really. But Sam's hand shoots out to clench in his shirt all the same, and Dean knows better to think he'll let go. He climbs into bed next to him, not bothering with his own shoes, and let's Sam snuffle into his chest. He presses a soft kiss to Sam's forehead that he'll deny at gunpoint and closes his eyes.

When he shoots up an hour later with a scream caught in his throat after dreaming of his brother lying dead in a field, well that's no one's business but his own.


End file.
